by John Coyne
Nine
"You wanted to see me, ma'am?" Conor whispered, standing behind Barbara Gardiner's desk. She jumped at the sound of the old man's voice and hit her knees against the typewriter stand. "Conor! My God, what are you doing sneaking up on me!" She spun her chair around and the old man scurried back, clutching his cap in both hands. He left behind the odor of his body. "I got a message, ma'am, you wanted to see me." Conor stood at a respectful distance, looking fearful, as if he expected her to pounce on him. "Yes, Conor, I did." Barbara turned her chair around again and began to search through files piled on her desk. "Conor, some information is missing from Fergus's personnel files and Mr. Brennan thought you might have an idea of where to look." She looked at the old man and waited expectantly. "Well, I wouldn't be knowing for sure." He moved forward, his farm shoes shuffling on the floor. "I only took care of the horses, ma'am." He grinned, as if it were foolish to question him. "I realize that, Conor." She answered patiently, trying not to rile him. She was tired of treating Conor with kid gloves, as if he were a visiting sheikh. "Nevertheless, you were a trusted employee and you do seem to know where everything is on the estate." Barbara smiled, attempting to flatter him. "And I thought-Mr. Brennan and I thought-you might have some idea where other filing cabinets might have been stored. Fergus was a very meticulous man; we have detailed records of every piece of property, of everyone who worked here at Ballycastle with the exception of the ten years from 1929 to 1939." "Oh, the Depression years, ma'am." "Yes, the Depression." "Ah, those were hard times for most people. Even for Himself, would you believe." Conor was edging closer to the desk, still clutching his wool cap in his bony hands. "Yes, Conor, I know they were difficult times." She recognized what was coming. Unless she could deflect him, Conor would be off again on one of his stories. "The Depression was why I came to America in the first place, did you know that, Missus Gardiner? 'Tis true." He cocked his head, making the point. "It was worse in Ireland, you know, in '27 and '28. Ah, you couldn't find a day's work in the land. We were all starving to death in Galway. And then Himself came home for the racing, and I met him by chance. Did I ever tell you how I met Himself?" He stopped and winked at her. "No, you didn't, Conor, but actually I don't have time at the moment. I'm behind in my work and I need to find those files." Barbara hated being rude, but she knew his way. Unless she kept talking she'd be there for hours, listening to stories of the old country. "Would you mind, Conor, looking around for the files? Perhaps they were stored in one of the farm buildings when the Foundation moved into the castle. It would be a great help to me if you would do that." She smiled sweetly, trying to show the old man that she'd appreciate his efforts. "Oh, I'd be happy to look for you, ma'am. 'Twouldn't be a bother at all. Files, you say?" He cocked his head again and seemed attentive. "Yes, like those old wooden cabinets." She pointed to the long row of them in her office. He studied the wooden cabinets as if they were a new discovery. "Well, to be truthful with you, ma'am, I've never seen the likes of them anywhere on the place." "Perhaps the files aren't in cabinets. Perhaps they're just stored, you see, in boxes." She picked up an old gray file and showed it to him. The old man was getting on her nerves. Sometimes she suspected his denseness was just an act, useful when he wanted to be uncooperative. "Ah, well, that could be true enough." He nodded agreeably. "I'll have a good look myself and see what I might be finding. But, tell me, ma'am, just what would you be needing a lot of old papers for?" "It's for a history of Ballycastle, Conor. I need to know who worked on the estate." "Oh, I'd be glad to tell you, ma'am." He came forward again, shuffling his old shoes on the marble floor. "I was here myself in them days. I came over from the old country in the summer of '27." "I'm sure you could help me, Conor, and I appreciate your offer, but I need the files. I need the official records of all the employees." He nodded, disappointed, and backed away. Again Barbara felt guilty. He was an old man who'd worked hard his whole life and now all he had left were his memories. She hated to seem as if she were dismissing them. "I do want to speak to you soon, Conor, and write down all your experiences. You're very important to my study, but before I can ask you to sit down with me I have to at least see what the records say about the rest of the staff." Barbara heard herself rambling on apologetically and decided enough was enough. "See what you can find, then," she added, bringing the whole discussion to an abrupt close. "And how's the lad?" Conor said brightly. "I haven't seen him about the place these last few days." "He's not been feeling well." For a moment Barbara thought of settling things with Conor, of asking him not to talk to Scotty any more. Derek, she knew, had not had time to take this up with him. But the sight of the old man stopped her from confronting him. He was so pathetic-looking, standing patiently, like an old dog waiting for a command. Barbara felt another wave of compassion. Conor was so frail; every move he made seemed to require all his strength. She would just have to be nice to him, she told herself. Kinder. Just raising her voice, she realized, intimidated Conor, sent him cowering. "Well, I'll be off then, with the help of God," he said finally, moving toward the door, still clutching his black cap, "and I'll have a good look for them files, ma'am." "Thank you, Conor. That would be a great help to me." She tried to sound pleased. At the door he hesitated, as if caught by a thread of thought, then looked back, saying, "The lad seemed a little upset when I saw him the other evening. I was telling him a story, you know, about the old days here at the castle. There wasn't a bit of truth in the tale, but the boy got a little frightened, I'm thinking." He sounded apologetic, as if he realized it was his fault. "Yes, Conor, he was upset, and now that you mention it, I was upset as well. Scotty has a very active imagination and your stories, I'm afraid, do frighten him. I would appreciate it if you didn't tell him any more of them." "Aah, there's no harm done." "Yes, Conor, there is harm," she answered, insistent now. "My son hasn't been well lately. His father died suddenly last year and he has had nightmares ever since. Maybe stories about hobgoblins and girls murdered right here at Ballycastle might seem innocent enough to you, but not to Scotty." She stopped abruptly, trembling. The depth of her own anger surprised her, but she wondered if the old man even understood what she meant. He simply stood meekly at the doorway. "Well, I didn't mean to do the lad any harm," he said remorsefully. "I won't say another word, so help me God." "Thank you, Conor." Barbara saw the worry in the small man's eyes, saw his obvious concern. "I know you've tried to be friendly to Scotty, and I appreciate that. He doesn't have many friends, not here at Ballycastle or at school." "Aah, he's a fine lad, that one." A spark of pleasure lit Conor's eyes. "I was meaning to ask you, ma'am. You wouldn't be Irish, yourself, or your late husband?" Barbara smiled. "No, I'm afraid we're Scottish and English on both sides." "Well, you know, he has the look of an Irishman about him." He had put on his black cap. "I won't say another word to the lad, of that you can be sure." He cocked the cap's bill and winked. "Don't you worry a thing about it." "Thank you, Conor." In that moment, the old man looked almost grandfatherly, and Barbara had the impulse to invite him home for dinner. They were the only people living on the estate and it would be, she realized, the neighborly thing to do. Yet she hesitated. It was irrational, she knew, but nevertheless she wanted to keep her distance from Conor. Her early warning system alerted her that something was wrong about this old man, and she had come to trust that instinct. "And I'll have a good look for those files," Conor went on. "Thank you again." She kept smiling, standing behind her desk, as if it were a barricade. It was only when Conor was out of sight, gone from her office, that Barbara found she had been holding her breath and trembling. The ring of the telephone startled her, and shaking off her apprehensiveness, she lifted the receiver with relief. "Mrs. Gardiner?" "Yes?" "Mrs. Gardiner, this is Valerie Dunn." Barbara could tell from the girl's voice that something was wrong. "What's the matter, Valerie?" she asked quickly. "Is it Scotty? Is he all right?" She was already shouting into the phone. "Yes, he's okay, I think. But maybe you should come home...now." "My God, what happened? What's the matte
r?" Barbara was on her feet and pacing. "Nothing happened. We were just up on Steepletop, you know, at the graveyard, and Scott was looking at the tombstones and everything and then he got all crazy about someone who is buried there and started telling me this weird story and then he was afraid to walk back through the woods, so I came home with him. Anyway, he asked me to call you and see if you could come home right away." She paused a moment. "Mrs. Gardiner, I think maybe you should." "I'm on my way. Please stay with Scott until I get there." "I will, but it's getting late, and I..." "I'll drive you home, Valerie, but tell me, did Scott hurt himself?" "No." "Has he tried to do anything?" "Like what?" Now she was puzzled. "He hasn't tried to hurt himself in any way, has he?" "Oh, no, we're just sitting here in the living room." "Please, Valerie, until I get home, don't let Scott out of your sight." The panic was again in Barbara's voice. The fear, like a hot iron against her heart, was that she wouldn't get home in time. Grabbing her purse she started for the door, then remembered Derek. She went back to her telephone and buzzed his office. This time, something told her, she couldn't handle Scott alone.
Valerie hung up and went back into the living room. Scott sat on the couch, and she stayed carefully on the other side of the room. "She's coming," Valerie reported. Scott nodded. "Do you want anything? A drink of water or something?" Valerie sat down on the arm of the chair. She spoke softly, afraid that even her voice might upset him again. He shook his head. "You don't have to hang around here," he said without looking at her. "That's okay. I told your mother I'd stay until she got home." Scotty grimaced. "You must think I'm some sort of fruitcake," and he chanced a glance across the room. She shrugged. "I don't know. I mean, I don't know why that name on the tombstone upset you. Was it because of your father or something?" She was curious, yet still afraid of Scotty, of the violence of his reaction. On Steepletop she had only wanted to run away, but she had known she couldn't leave him. "I don't want to talk about it." "Sorry," she whispered and took a deep breath. If he got out of his chair, she told herself, she would just run, get out the back door and run up to the castle. Karen was still working; she would take care of her. "I didn't mean to yell at you," he said next, as an apology. He shifted positions on the couch and began to relax. Valerie could see he was no longer trembling. "That's okay." "I'm always yelling at people," he admitted, "and I guess I usually don't mean it. I just seem to be angry a lot of the time." "You got angry up on Steepletop?" she asked, surprised. "I got scared. I just freaked out when I saw that tombstone." She kept herself from asking why. That was the trouble with her. She never knew when to keep quiet. "Remember that story I told you? About the girl found dead down by the river? Well, her name was Carmel Burke. The same name on the tombstone up on the hill." "Scott, that doesn't mean she was killed by hobgoblins." Valerie was no longer afraid of him. He was just wrong. He was only inventing monsters, making up stories to frighten himself. "Scott, everyone knows there's no such thing as hobgoblins. I mean, they're just fairy tales! Little kids believe in them, the way they believe in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy." "Yeah, I guess you're right." "What do you mean, you guess? I mean, have you ever seen a monster? A leprechaun, even?" She couldn't believe that he believed in the bogeyman. At school he was the smartest student in all their classes. "Look who's talking," he said. "You won't even look at Ballycastle." "That's different." "Only to you." "The castle looks evil," she said, defending herself. "People always told ghost stories about it when I was growing up. And when Fergus was alive he was always acting weird." "Like how? Did you ever see him?" "No, silly. He died a long time ago. My aunt saw him once, though, when she was really little. Before my mother was born." "Did she tell you about it?" "Yes, but she doesn't remember much. My grandfather used to deliver hay for the horses and she'd come with him sometimes." Valerie kept talking, seeing how her story was pulling Scott out of his depression. "She had wandered off and was walking through the woods, out by the arboretum, when she saw him." "What was he doing?" "He had his little hammer, this little gold hammer, and he was going around marking trees that seemed diseased. Somebody would come along later and chop them down. That way he kept track of every single tree planted on the lawns. He saw to each one himself." "Well, did he say anything? Did he see her?" "He asked her name. She was afraid he was going to get mad at Granddaddy because she was off alone, but he was very nice. He was wearing a white suit and a tie. He looked pretty, you know, like he was at a garden party." "Did he say anything else?" It wasn't until then that Valerie remembered what the man had said to Aunt Theresa that summer afternoon years before. He had been bending over, inspecting a patch of discolored bark, but when he saw her he straightened up and smiled. He was wearing a widebrimmed straw hat and he took it off, then bowed gently, smiling. He was younger than Theresa's father, and his body was straight and strong. His eyes were a very bright blue that sparkled like the sea in the sun. "What did he say?" Scott pressed quickly, seeing the reaction on her face. "Oh, nothing. I can't remember." "Yes, you can." He got up and came toward her. "He said that she should watch out for hobgoblins." "See! I told you. I told you," Scott shouted, pointing his finger at her. "It just doesn't mean anything. Jeez, it's just something any adult would tell a little kid." Now she was out of her chair and after him as he kept backing away, circling around the furniture. "I told you!" Scott was laughing as he dodged Valerie. She was trying to slap him, swinging wildly. "Stop it!" she shouted back, and now she was laughing because it felt good to be hitting him, getting even. "Watch out for the hobgoblins," Scott shouted at her. They had circled the small room once, Scott darting between the furniture, then doubling back to keep out of Valerie's long reach. She was breathing hard from the pursuit and she could feel her arms growing weary from her ineffective assault when he caught his foot on the rug and tumbled over the sofa's arm, falling in the middle of the room. Valerie dove for him, landed across his body and quickly straddled him, pinning his arms. "Get off me." "No." She was leaning down, grinning, her long black hair falling in his face. "Valerie, come on, goddamnit!" He twisted his head. "Get your hair out of my eyes." He was laughing, giggling under the touch of her fingers. "Please get off me," he begged. "Not until you stop making fun of me," she demanded. "I'll stop! I'll stop!" Then he gathered his strength and rolled to one side, spilling her onto the floor beneath him. "What in the world is this?" Barbara Gardiner stood looking down at the two of them. She had run into the house through the kitchen to find them sprawled out on the living room rug. "Oh, hi, Mom." Scott rolled away from Valerie and sat up. "Scotty? Valerie?" Barbara leaned over the back of the sofa. "What's going on here? Valerie, you said Scott wasn't feeling well." "I wasn't before, Mom, but I'm okay now." Scott got up off the floor. "It isn't Valerie's fault. I asked her to call you-I mean, I wasn't really feeling good, but..." "Scott, you're not making much sense." She spotted the fresh gauze bandages on his arm. "What happened to you?" "Oh, nothing. I just..." "I was showing Scott what we did in first aid today, Mrs. Gardiner. We were just practicing wrapping a bandage, that's all." Valerie, too, was on her feet, tucking in her blouse. Barbara kept glancing back and forth between the two. They weren't telling the truth, but she did not press them. Through the front bay window she saw Derek's car wheel into the drive. "I better go home," Valerie said quickly, seizing the moment of silence in the room. She moved around behind the chairs, as if ready to make a quick escape. "Valerie, please. If you could just wait a minute, I'll drive you." Barbara smiled to show there was nothing to wont' about. "Now, both of you, please sit down." She gestured toward the chairs and waited while the two of them slid slowly onto the cushions. Derek came through the front door without knocking and walked over to Barbara. "Is everything all right?" he asked softly. "Well, I think so, but I'm not sure. Sit down, Derek, and let's find out." She moved around the sofa and sat down opposite Scott and Valerie. "Okay, what happened?" She kept smiling, trying to sound cheerful, positive, as if the two did not have anything to worry about. "It's my fault," Scott admitted at once. "I sort of frea
ked out earlier and got Valerie all scared and everything." He was staring at the rug, afraid to look at his mother. "Freaked out how, Scotty?" Barbara asked. "Oh, we went up to that cemetery on the top of the hill." "Steepletop," Valerie added. "And there's these tombstones, see. All these weird-looking tombstones shaped like gargoyles or something, and one of them was marked 'Carmel Burke 1912-1931.'" He glanced at his mother. She saw then the fear in his eyes. A moment before he had been laughing, carried away with excitement in a way she had not seen since before Warren died. Yet still he carried this unexplained terror inside, locked away like some secret. "Yes, I've seen those tombstones, Scott," Derek spoke up. "They are strange, and now that you mention it, they do look like gargoyles." He was leaning forward in his chair, his arms braced against his knees. Scott hated having Derek agree with him. "It wasn't the tombstones," he said scornfully. "Then what was it?" Barbara asked quietly, sensing his hostility. "It was her," he burst out. "You said Carmel Burke didn't exist, that Conor had only made her up." His voice flared up as he accused his mother. He had so little control of his emotions, Barbara realized. The slightest provocation set him off. "The name isn't important, Scott," she replied calmly, trying with the softness of her voice to ease his tension. "I'm sure Conor just used it for the purposes of his story. What matters is that he said she was killed by Nuckelavees and you know they don't exist, don't you?" She had to hear her son agree with her, to reassure her that he could still separate reality from his fantasy world. Scott nodded reluctantly. "Then why were you so upset?" Barbara pressed. "Oh, God, I don't know. Seeing it, I guess." He stood up and began to pace. "Please, Scotty, can't you sit still for a moment?" Barbara blurted out. She could feel her nerves begin to fray. This was foolish, fighting with Scott in front of strangers. Across the room, Scott dropped into a straight back chair. "You're not upset now at finding this tombstone, are you?" Derek asked. He, too, spoke softly, like a guidance counselor. Scott looked away, not responding to Derek. "Scott, you were asked a question," Barbara said, seeing her son's reaction. He was getting into one of his sullen states, she realized, and it made her furious. She couldn't stand it when he began to sulk. "No, I'm not upset," Scott mumbled. "Scott, no one can understand you," Valerie said. Barbara glanced at the girl, surprised by her remark, and pleased, too, that she was reacting to Scott's surliness. Slowly, hesitantly, Scott pulled his hands away from his mouth and sitting up, said again, "No, I'm not upset." "There's nothing malicious about old Conor, Scott," Derek continued, earnestly, "he's just a story teller. And I'm sure that, since he knew you played Hobgoblin, he just figured he would work these Nuckelavees into his story." "Well, everything's all right now," Barbara interjected, trying to end the discussion. "I think we should just drop the whole thing. Derek, would you mind driving Valerie home? I'm afraid we've kept this poor girl here past her dinner time. Valerie, would you like me to telephone your mother?" "No, that's okay. Mom knows I sometimes stop by here to see Karen. And you don't have to drive me home, Mr. Brennan. I can just cut through the woods." "Oh, no, Valerie. It's on my way home." Derek turned to Barbara. "Everything all right?" he asked softly. She nodded. "I can drive back later, if you like." She shook her head. "I'll call you this evening, then." He could see the tension in her small face, see how her jaw was already set against the pending encounter with Scott. Barbara nodded, only half-aware of his offer. Already she was debating with herself how to handle her son, whether to chastise him for his behavior or to console. Obviously, he had had another brief psychotic episode. Dr. Frisch had warned her to expect them, while at the same time saying that Scott would eventually grow out of his illness as he became an adult and left his fantasy behind. Barbara walked Valerie and Derek to the car. "Thank you for being Scott's friend," she whispered to Valerie. "Oh, that's okay. I was having a good time and everything until we got up on Steepletop. I'm sorry. I mean, I didn't know it would get him all upset." "That's all right, Valerie. It's not your fault, and Scott is fine." She hugged the girl, trying to reassure her. "He needs a good friend. He needs someone like you."